


At the Ballet

by flaming_muse



Category: Glee
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_muse/pseuds/flaming_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt tries to keep his expression calm as he looks out at the crowd of New York’s hoi polloi.</p>
<p>set during 4x20 (“Lights Out”), no spoilers beyond</p>
<p>freewriting</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Ballet

“Oh my god, Kurt,” Rachel says in a shrill whisper out of the corner of her mouth as she joins him at the edge of the room at the New York City Ballet Gala, “I just helped Bernadette Peters find the bathroom. _Bernadette Peters_!”

Kurt knows his eyes are as wide as hers, but he tries to keep his expression otherwise calm as he looks out at the crowd of New York’s hoi polloi. He doesn’t want to look like the overawed and overwhelmed kid he feels like... and, if he’s honest with himself, _is_. He just wants to save the squealing and jumping up and down for the privacy of their apartment, no matter how much his excitement is threatening to burst out. “I managed to find three extra packages of those organic ballet-slipper-shaped dog cookies in the gift bags for Alan Cumming,” he tells her, barely able to get the words out at the memory of Mr. Cumming’s charming thanks on behalf of his beloved pets. “And I’m pretty sure I walked by André Leon Talley admiring Santana’s shoes.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel says again.

“I know,” Kurt agrees, and not just because he helped Isabelle pick the perfect shoes for her from the vault. He can’t believe this isn’t a dream and that he’s really at this post-performance cocktail party with all of these people. His breaths are so shallow he feels like he might pass out. He clasps his hands together to keep them from shaking. The room is elegant and lovely, the people are even more beautiful, and it’s his job to walk among them and talk to the celebrities and make sure they’re happy. It’s his job. How is this his _job_?

“This night is amazing,” Rachel says.

Kurt nods, because yes. Yes, it is. He’s wearing a gorgeous suit, he’s mingling with some of the brightest stars in New York, and he’s only in his first semester of college. This is a _dream_ , despite the fact that he’s awake.

He watches Anna Wintour glide past on one of her signature - if kind of boring to him, even if that means he’s disagreeing with pretty much the top arbiter of style in the city if not the world - pairs of nude Manolos and greet Naomi Campbell with distant cheek kisses and somehow doesn’t let his eyes bug out of his head. He doesn’t clutch at Rachel’s arm when he sees Santana guiding someone who looks suspiciously like Countess LuAnn de Lesseps to the bar, even if she’s his favorite Housewife. He catches sight of Tommy Hilfiger talking with a willowy, dark-haired woman he suddenly recognizes as one of the prima ballerinas he used to watch - and sigh over, because they were so beautiful and graceful - on _Sesame Street_ , and he wonders if it’s possible to asphyxiate one’s self by forgetting how to breathe entirely.

“Kurt,” Rachel whispers urgently, “I think I see Anderson Cooper.”

Kurt immediately follows her gaze, because _oh my god, Anderson Cooper_ , and yes, there he is, smiling that charming smile of his at Rex Reed, whom Kurt had escorted into the after party himself as an extra special guest. “Pretending I’m not freaking out is one of the hardest things I have ever done,” he whispers back.

Rachel nods and grabs his hand, holding it tightly in hers hidden within the folds of her dress. “It’s good we’re both such skilled actors.”

Kurt squeezes her hand back and lets the flood of beautiful people wash over him. It’s hard to believe that they can be real, but there they all are, not pixels on his television or still photos in a magazine but actual people talking and laughing and sharing the very same air that he’s struggling to draw into his lungs.

“Just think,” Rachel says after they both watch Anderson for a long moment. “Someday that will be us. We’ll be two of the stars mingling with Anderson Cooper and Bernadette Peters.”

Kurt can picture it. It’s not hard at all; he’s been imagining himself being somewhere like this gala for as long as he can remember. He can picture himself wearing a perfectly tailored suit - one of his own, not one loaned from the Vogue.com vault - and walking with his head held up among the throngs of famous and powerful guests. He can imagine saying hello to Tim Gunn with an easy smile instead of wide eyes. He can almost taste the hors d’oeuvres he’d pluck from the waiters’ trays with a cool, confident hand as he chatted and mingled with his peers.

And he can see himself doing it all with an immaculately dressed partner on his arm like all of these celebrities have, an attentive, charming, handsome man who would share in the beauty of the evening, bring him a glass of champagne and rescue him from overly fawning admirers, dance with him under the sparkling lights, and be able to talk for hours about the night at home afterwards, their shoes off and ties loosened in the perfectly appointed apartment they called their own.

He can picture it, this life he always used to daydream about with Blaine over lazy afternoons flipping through magazines at the library or on his bed, and he wants it.

He wants it all _so much_.

He wants the admiration. He wants the success. He wants the life he’s always dreamed of. He wants the kind and supportive partner to share it with at the end of the day.

He wants it all so fervently that it makes his chest ache and his jaw firm, because he might be a student at NYADA and an intern at Vogue.com, but he’s not close to his dreams yet. Being here makes it so clear. He’s still on the outside looking in. He’s come so far, so very far, from Lima already, but when he looks out at this throng of glittering stars and socialites he knows he’s got an incredibly long way to go. And so much of it is out of his hands. Career, love, so much of life isn’t just up to him. Other people get to judge, make choices, say yes or no, make promises and break them, make his heart soar or shatter. Wanting it simply isn’t enough.

It’s a frustration he’s lived with for too long. He knows how to, at least, but he still hates that so many other people still hold the keys to the doors he longs to fling open and rush through to the happiness beyond.

“Next year,” Rachel says, fierce and determined in that single-minded way he both admires and fears in her, because it’s taken her down some selfish paths he could never have chosen. “Or the year after at the latest.”

“It might take longer than that,” Kurt replies with a laugh, too overwhelmed by the night and all that he yearns for to want to argue.

“Not if I get Fanny.”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement, because if she does she will be well on her way to being the star she’s destined to be. He wouldn’t mind all that much being her plus-one next year, though he’d rather get an invitation on his own merits.

“I have final approval for any and all red carpet dresses you wear,” he reminds her, because honestly, there’s no point to being her plus-one if she’s on the worst dressed list for the night. Well, only a _little_ point, because he’d still get to be there. _Here._ In the middle of it all, not just at the side, doing a job.

“I know, I know,” she says and fluffs her skirt with satisfaction.

And someday, somehow, he’s going to have an invitation of his own, he tells himself, though he knows it’s far from a given. He’ll have the suit, the admiration, and the man on his arm, the one he still pictures with Blaine’s dark hair and bright smile, no matter how much he knows he shouldn’t.

Someday he _will_ figure out how to get his heart to let go of Blaine and all that they planned to have together, including nights like this one. He will.

“Kurt,” Isabelle murmurs as she brushes past them. “I think you made a friend for life with those dog biscuits. Excellent job.” She smiles at him with a mixture of pride and amusement and gestures subtly in the direction of Alan Cumming.

Kurt can’t help the giddy smile that rises to his face, because Alan Cumming likes him enough to tell Isabelle, and she likes him enough, too, to pass along the comment. Sure, he’s not going to be asked over to Alan’s for dinner, not today, not this year, but it’s still a step in the right direction. He’s fitting in. He’s getting noticed. He might be at the bottom of the ladder, but he’s making an impression, a good one. He can do this, keep rising step by step until he reaches the top or dies trying. There’s no question that he’s going to keep trying. He wants it too badly not to, all of it.

“We should invite him to the apartment for brunch,” Rachel says, elbowing him to get his attention. “He must know the producers of _Funny Girl_. He could put in a good word for me.”

“It was just dog biscuits, Rachel.”

“We should take every opportunity presented to us,” she replies. “Seize the day, Kurt. _Carpe diem_! No matter how talented we are, it’s the only way we’ll get anywhere!”

Shaking his head, Kurt looks out at the crowd again, and something about it makes his heart falter in his chest, just for a second. There are so many successful, established, happy men and women enjoying a magical night, and he feels young, naive, and alone compared to them, a hopeful just barely starting out in the big city. There’s Barbara Walters across the room. There’s the mayor. There's Rachel, who at least has a callback for a lead in a Broadway show. And then there’s him.

He feels insignificant and small, one of so very many trying to reach those dizzy heights of importance.

As he stands there, Coco Rocha walks by in an impeccable Valentino gown, and Kurt’s hand flutters up to his throat at the sight of her. She’s almost too perfect in person. And yet there she is. Right there, dressed to perfection in New York at one of the most spectacular galas of the year.

And so, he remembers, is he.

_So is he._

He gives himself a mental shake, squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin.

So what if he doesn’t have the career yet? Or the husband? Or even the stable, perfect, irresistible boyfriend who loves him beyond words and reason, if that actually exists beyond his naive high school years? He might want everything to be settled now, but where he is is still incredible. He can’t really believe it, and he hopes no one pinches him if he’s dreaming. He doesn’t want to wake up. Even with all that’s left to achieve that he wants so desperately he can taste it, even though he wants to be one of the glittering throng with a partner and a career of his own instead of a lonely college student in a borrowed suit standing next to his best friend, he doesn’t want to wake up.

“ _Carpe diem_? Look where we’re standing, Rachel,” Kurt tells her, drawing her closer to admire the sparkling room and all who fill it. “I think we already are.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am unspoiled zomg for future Glee including tonight's episode before it airs. Please do not spoil me!


End file.
